Flawless
Defearon stood perched on a thick tree branch high up above the crowns of the tree's. Dressed in thick black leather armor, a cape of finely woven black silk thread whipping behind him in the bursts of wind. He surveyed the mountainous landscape a good few miles North of Northshire. The area has just been soaked by a short downpour the night before. Thick gray clouds still lingering in the sky above and blocking out the sun. Defearon closed his eyes, craning his head back a bit and inhaling the scent of the forest. The smell of soggy wood and thin mist filling his nostrils. He breathed out and opened his eyes, craning his neck upright again, his expression emotionless, stern, and unreadable. He crossed those large muscles fattened by heavy workout across his chest, locking them there. The goal was simple. The assignment was to disrupt the delivery if not completely eradicate a caravan assigned to deliver an order of pikes, swords, shields, and other pieces of remorseless metals to troops in the Plaugelands. The pay was large, but the cut he would have to give out to his squad he assembled for this mission would leave him with very little. No matter. He had a card up his sleeve to counter that problem. But he would not reveal it, not yet. His ears perked and he looked to his right. Coming down the path was the caravan escorted by four Riflemen, a pair of Pike men, and six lightly armed swordsmen. All bore the tabard bearing the golden lion of the Alliance. Fools. They were clear targets in the solemn forest atmosphere. The surroundings were perfect for the plan. The road had a deep and steep canyon to its left, and a forest to its right populated by thick bushes and long grass. The road itself was made completely of dirt. But due to the recent rain and the lack of warm air and the sun's presence the dirt was dotted with thick puddles and the rest was thick and gooey mud. As the caravan drew closer Defearon removes one of his hands and, using two fingers, gestures to a thick line of bushes along their side of the road. From the long grass surrounding the tree two men dressed in thick, heavy woodland camouflage ran towards the bushes, crouched low. One carried a rectangular box painted with woodland camouflage and the other carried a hunk of metal with a long piece of metal sprouting off of it, also painted in woodland camouflage. Good. Defearon knew what it was, but even as close as he was he could hardly distinguish his own technology. It was a little invention he liked the call a "machine gun". It was modeled and designed like the modern M249 SAW(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:M249mg.jpg). The two men quickly set up a three legged stand and mounted the "machine gun" on top of it. While one of them checked and ran preparations on it, the other opened the rectangular box and pulled out a long belt of 5.56 x 45 mm NATO bullets. He carefully but quickly began to feed them into a small opening on the side of the machine gun. The middle of the caravan halted right in front of the machine gun nest due to one of the back wheels of the second out of three horse-drawn wagons getting jammed in a thick patch of mud. Two swordsman dropped their shields and swords at their sides and stopped at each wheel, trying to lift them out of the mud. As they worked on the wheels the two pike men stood at the back of third wagon, keeping careful watch for anyone or anything following. The four rifleman surrounded the first wagon and kept watch of both sides of the path. The remaining four swordsmen ran reconnaissance into the forest. The walked right into his trap. From the long grass and bushes came five of Defearon's men also bearing woodland camouflage. Each one crept up behind a swordsman, grasped their hands over their target's mouths and cut their throats with knifes resembling the modern OKC-3S Bayonet (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Bayonet_OKC-3S_-_Ontario_Knife_Company.jpg). Each one gurgled and spas, some had the strength to try and break free. But Defearon's men were not weaklings and they held fast until their targets fell limp. After which they carefully set the bodies on the forest floor and proceeded to another patch of bushes along the roadside. The guards suspected nothing. Heard nothing. Now on his order his men would strike and cut down the remaining guards. He whistled, his whistle sounding exactly like a song bird of the forest. But it was more than a whistle. For his men it was a signal to lock and load. The five men loaded the custom made weapons Defearon referred to as "submachine guns" that were designed and modeled after the modern day AKS-74U (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Ukrainian_Marine_with_AKS-74U.JPEG). Defearon's neutrals expression broke for a brief moment for a sadistic grin as he tapped the trunks of three with his fingertip. The two men manning the machine gun nodded, somehow hearing the tap and without warning unloaded on the caravan. The man on the right wheel of the caravan who was trying to pick it out of the mud stood no chance. His body shook violently as bullet after bullet shoot through him. The two men shifted the machine gun towards the musketeers. Again, the two on the right were dead in moments as they were peppered with dozens of bullets. The two to the left almost stumbled off the edge as the horse whinnied loudly, reared up on its hind legs, and ran off like a bullet at the nearby gunfire. The two quickly ran to the swordsman who was ducking behind the wagon, the horse carrying it dead from getting caught in the crossfire. The five men with AKS-74U's split up. Three ran to the back of the caravan and rittled the two pike man as the came towards the bushes to flank the machine gun nest. Piece of cake. The only things giving them trouble was the two riflemen who were returning musket fire. How simple. Defearon opened his palm, extended his arm out, and pointed his open palm at the caravan the survivors were ducking behind. He grinned a fireball flew from the palm, soaring through the thin fog and hitting the wagon. The impact knocked it over and due to limited space rolled over the side, carrying the three survivors with it. Defearon's five men went up to each corpse and gave it one last shot to the forehead, just to make sure it was dead. They peered over the ledge, the crashing of the wagon against the rocky cliff and the slowly fading screams of the three guards fading into the valley's fog. They were dead. Defearon grinned, success as expected. And not a single causality. He hopped off the branch and gracefully landed on both feet on the ground. The moment he landed his troops assembled around him, kneeling before him. He smirked, his tone was emotionless as he spoke "You did good men...effective, smooth, and quick. We're sure to get paid..." he smirked at the last five words he said and without warning or waste of haste pulled from a hidden holster on the inside of his boot a revolver modeled and designed like the Smith and Wesson Model 500 Revolver (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Smith-et-Wesson-modele-500-p1030121.jpg) but with a slight modification. Three barrels instead of the average single one. He smirked and fired a group of three rounds into each of his men's skulls. Neither of them had the chance to look up in time. A shame. Defearon really wanted to see the shocked and fearful expressions on their faces when they still breathed. It was far more amusing to see them die then watch them rot. The deed was done. He packed his men onto the caravans and all of his equipment he loaned them from their corpses. Stuffing it all neatly into a large brown leather sack. He reached into the pocket of his leather pants and released a lighter and smirked as he light a small flame and ignited the packing straw that surrounded each of the contents of each wagon. He watched them burn his men's corpses and the wagons and grinned briefly as he kicked each one over the cliff. The bright red and orange flame still visible through the thickening mist of the valley below. He laughed and returned the revolver to the holster in his boot. Any Alliance fools who noticed the caravan never arriving to its destination would search these would and find this place. But they'd find nothing to link to him. The shells he left there were all crafted when he was wearing gloves so no one would be able to trace his fingerprints on them. He also made sure each of his men loaded the bullets into the guns themselves. The investigators would be searching for dead men. They wouldn't be able to track his craftsmanship. Little to no one knew he made weaponry. They'd assume the crafter long dead or label that mystery unsolved. Investigators would also assume that the attack itself was made by mountain bandits who left the enemy corpses and took the wagons, weapons, and their own dead with them. By the time they'd think to search the valley anything that survived the fall would be in pieces or too deadto identify or use for the investigation. Defearon laughed in triumph as he hauled the sack over his shoulder with ease and walked into the quickly thickening mist of the forest. He got the pay, some fun, and a bit of target practice in. Flawless... Category:Lore